Two out of Three Ain't Bad
by Pancakes
Summary: Summary: Do you like pancakes? Do you like shot glasses? Well, then have we got a story for you! Warning: May not actually include pancakes or shot glasses.
1. To Panama With Care

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, in a magical place called the basement of Pancakes's house, the authors owned nothing. Well, perhaps this is a bit of an overstatement; they owned quite a lot. They did not, however, own the Harry Potter characters, or anything of that nature. Except in the domain of fanfiction; here the characters of Harry Potter were like the monkey bars on the playground of doom. But we don't own them. We just own the ideas. Okay, so we may have stolen those, too. But… well, yeah. Read on!

Summary: Do you like pancakes? Do you like shot glasses? Well, then have we got a story for you! Warning: May not actually include pancakes or shot glasses.

To Panama with Care

Harry Potter hated unlocking the front door to his apartment. The main reason for this loathing was the fact that, despite living with muggles for the majority of his life, he had never really figured out how to use keys. As a result, he would stand outside of his apartment for close to five minutes each day, turning the key upside-down time and time again, just to try to fit the damn thing in. This act was usually accompanied by a stream of profanity that any one of his neighbors could have recited perfectly at any given moment.

To make matters worse, upon finally entering his apartment, he was greeted with the all too familiar sight of Hermione Granger sprawled awkwardly on the couch with Ron Weasley.

"Hi, Ron. Hi, Hermione. Have a good day?"

They didn't respond, but it wasn't as if they needed to. The answer was quite apparent.

With a sigh, Harry made his way into the kitchen to get himself something to eat. Up until a couple of months ago, Harry would have never imagined something that graphic to be taking place on his couch. But a couple months ago, Harry didn't know that Ron and Hermione were dating. On that fateful afternoon, Ron decided the best way to break the news to Harry would be to have Hermione move in. Unfortunately for Harry, Ron did not put in enough forethought to alert him to the circumstances. So, Harry arrived home from work to see Hermione Granger, the bookish girl he had known since they were both eleven, walk out of his bathroom in only her underwear. If Harry had thought that was scarring, little did he know, it would only get worse.

All of a sudden, he heard the noise of what seemed to be a cow. Oh, dear God, not again.

Harry knew that he had to move out. If he wanted to ever think of his friends without any semblance of nausea (granted, it may have been a bit too late for that) he would have to find somewhere else to live. If he didn't, it was only a matter of time until he shot himself, or one of his best friends.

It was during that train of thought that Harry heard the familiar sound of an owl tapping its beak against the windowpane. The evening newspaper had arrived.

It wasn't as if Harry particularly liked the news. In fact, it usually depressed him. But, lately he had begun to find the news more interesting, mainly because he had discovered the ads for apartments. This search was pretty much the only thing the only thing that kept him sane. So far, his quest had proved fruitless, but he was not prepared to give up yet. One of these days, he would find the perfect apartment: clean, well-maintained, affordable, and close to a Starbucks.

Looking through this evening's paper, he finally came across an ad with potential:

Looking for roommate to share penthouse. 4 bdrms. 3 ½ bath. Fully functioning kitchen. Great view of city. Applicants must be able to cook and clean. Open house Sunday 3 pm – 5pm. Starbucks in lobby.

There was only the problem about the roommate; he would have preferred to live on his own.

He heard the cow noises come once again from the living room.

At this point, he didn't really care. Any roommate would be better than his current ones.

Later that night, Harry assumed his usual seat at the kitchen table, across from Ron and Hermione. They did not even pretend to notice his presence. Harry was quite aware that it was only his firm insistence that kept them all eating dinner at the same time. It took him more than half the meal to come up with the right words, even though he was pretty sure they wouldn't even be listening when he said them.

He cleared his throat loudly and stated as firmly as he could:

"I'm moving out as soon as I find an apartment."

However, this did not have the reaction that Harry had expected. Ron and Hermione broke apart immediately shocked expressions crossing both of their faces.

"What, mate? You're moving out? Why would you want to do that?" Ron inquired, seemingly stunned.

"Well," Harry ventured tentatively, "you guys kind of just, uh, make out all of the time, and, you know, sometimes, it's not just making out, and that's a little awkward."

Well, he wasn't being awarded any points for tact.

"Oh," said Hermione, "we hadn't realized it was that bad."

"We can try to tone it down a little, you know, shut the door and stuff," Ron suggested.

Harry smiled at Ron's attempt at diplomacy. "I think it'll be better if I just move out, for all of us. That way, you guys can keep doing whatever you're doing and I won't have to see it anymore. We all win. I'll visit you all the time. And, I'll make sure to call at least half an hour before I arrive, so that I won't catch you two in any… compromising positions."

"Well, if you're sure, Harry," Ron said, retaking Hermione's hand in a sickeningly sweet gesture.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

A/N: Georgina: TADA! That was the first chapter?

Peaches: Dudes! We rock!

Georgina: Pcha, yes.

Peaches: So, just in case you hadn't figured out by now, we are co-authoring this story under our co-author penname Pancakes.

Georgina: Which really should have been "Pancakes?" But the silly rules on about not letting us use question marks in our penname…

Peaches: Foiled again. Oh, and Georgina and Peaches aren't our real names.

Georgina: Just in case you thought that.

Peaches: EWWWW! And I'm not going to tell you why! EEEWW!

Georgina: She's a little messed in the head.

Peaches: Hey, I have a perfectly good reason for being grossed out.

Georgina: Does it have anything to do with the second chapter?

Peaches: No, what are you –

Georgina: Shh!! I'm just trying to make a segue here!

Peaches: Oh, right. Read chapter two when it shows up.

Georgina: Which will be sometime next week.

Peaches: We hope.

Georgina: Give us a review!

Peaches: Flames are appreciated! We will laugh at them!

Georgina: And, of course, we always appreciate praise for my wonderfulness, of which there is much.

Peaches: We all know I'm hotter.

Georgina: Whatever you say, Peaches.


	2. The Pool Boys

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, in a magical place called the basement of Pancakes's house, the authors owned nothing. Well, perhaps this is a bit of an overstatement; they owned quite a lot. They did not, however, own the Harry Potter characters, or anything of that nature. Except in the domain of fanfiction; here the characters of Harry Potter were like the monkey bars on the playground of doom. But we don't own them. We just own the ideas. Okay, so we may have stolen those, too. But… well, yeah. Read on!

Summary: Do you like pancakes? Do you like shot glasses? Well, then have we got a story for you! Warning: May not actually include pancakes or shot glasses.

The Pool Boys

The rest of the week passed uneventfully for Harry. However, Ron and Hermione were much more accommodating then they had been in the past. They refrained from overt gestures of intimacy in his presence, and even managed to stop making out for a few seconds every morning to say hello to him. Harry appreciated their attempts to try and make him more comfortable; however, this was not going to cut it. He still intended to move out.

Sunday eventually arrived, as it always did: with a certain air of drowsiness; a certain laziness that invited all those in its presence to abandon all thought of productivity and bask in its lethargic splendor. But Harry would not be swayed by its allowance for slothfulness; he was on a mission. He showered with purpose. He dressed with purpose. He even sipped his coffee with purpose. This did not go unnoticed by Ron.  
"Oi, mate, what the bugger?" he asked, with an obnoxiously Cockney accent, which seemed to be most exaggerated early in the morning. Many a time, Harry was not even sure that the string of words Ron had uttered formed something even semi-coherent, but he answered the best he could:  
"I'm going to check out the apartment today, remember?" Ron blinked as if his brain had spontaneously ceased to function. This would have surprised Harry, were it not for the fact that Ron's brain had ceased to function many, many years ago.  
"Blah, blah, chopsticks," Ron muttered, before turning back to his coffee. He definitely needed it. He couldn't function until he had had at least three cups, and this was only his second, so Harry thought he'd cut him some slack.  
"Morning, all," said Hermione, sitting down in the chair next to Ron and kissing him on the cheek. Harry murmured under his breath, and Hermione smiled back sheepishly.  
"Coffee, Hermione?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer, but this was a pleasantry that he would not abandon.  
"No, thank you, Harry." Hermione was one of those rare morning people who not only lived without caffeine, but got up at four as well. Harry despised these people, but in Hermione's case, he would make an exception.  
A few moments of silence ensued, permeated solely by the sounds of coffee percolating.  
"So where's this apartment?" she inquired.  
"London," Harry answered vaguely.  
"Very specific, Harry."  
"Thanks, I try."  
"Do you know who's selling? I mean they're a wizard, right? 'Cause that might be difficult to explain, if not."  
"No, it was in the _Prophet_," Harry reassured her, "But, I don't think the owner is selling."  
"What do you mean?"  
Harry decided to come right out and say it: "I'm going to have a roommate."  
"Oh." Hermione pursed her lips. Harry hadn't wanted to tell her that; it seemed kind of harsh to say that he would rather live with a complete stranger than his two best friends, although it was true. However, Hermione chose not to make a big deal out of it.  
"Well, I hope it goes well for you," she said sincerely, albeit a tad bit brusquely.  
He had Hermione's blessing, and he took the proceeding grunt from Ron as approval as well.

Harry tried to get some work done; he certainly had plenty of that to do. But his mind just couldn't concentrate. The words and phrases swam before him incoherently, and what he could read, his brain just wouldn't process. He was too nervous. So many questions played out in his mind: Who would this roommate be? What if they didn't get along? What if the apartment too small, too far away from his work, falling apart?  
And the most worrisome: Would Ron and Hermione take him back if it didn't work out? His inclination was to say yes, but…but all the same.  
He sighed deeply and stood up from his desk, glancing down at his watch. It was quarter to three. He really should be getting going. He would be there a bit later that he had previously planned, but punctuality was not really one of his virtues.  
He grabbed his coat, the ad, and a scarf, bidding a quick farewell to Ron and Hermione, who immediately broke apart as he entered the living room.  
So, how was he to get to this apartment? The quickest and most convenient way would be to apparate, but since he did not know the muggle situation of the building, this would not be advisable. That would be a very awkward conversation. No, he certainly didn't want to risk that. He would have to take the underground.

Harry had never been a fan of the underground: it was just too noisy, smelly, and crowded for his liking. But it was cheaper than a cab and faster than walking. So he left his building and headed for the nearest underground entrance.  
The cold, December wind whipped his coat back, away from his body, causing him to cling to it, desperately pulling around him in some sort of attempt to stay warm. The winter has been mild thus far, so he was not used to this sort of weather. He mused silently. It was only two weeks before Christmas, and he had yet to even think about gifts. He had been putting it off for a while; the dreaded shopping was more than he was willing to deal with. But this, he thought, was an issue for another day.  
He almost welcomed the blast of hot air that waved over him as he descended into the underground, anything to restore the life into his numb extremities. He didn't even mind buying his ticket or pushing through the thick crowds to get to his train. And twenty minutes later, he was exiting the train; at what he thought was the correct station.

But, of course, it wasn't.

It took him less than half a minute to realize that he was in the wrong place. In fact, he was on the entirely wrong side of the city. And, typical Harry, he had no idea where he had gone astray.  
He glanced down at his watch, and sighed discontentedly: the confounded thing was on the fritz again. It had been that way off and on ever since fourth year, what with the incident of the Second Task and all. Hermione had tried to fix it, but it was never a particularly good watch and it did not respond well to Hermione's spell. He had never bothered to replace it; he just wasn't willing to put in the extra effort.  
But now his laziness was coming back to bite him. He was lost at who knows what station and had no idea how long he had to make it back.  
As it turned out, there were no information booths in this station. There weren't even any guards to ask. In fact, the only people in the entire station were a group of large female tourists. At least, Harry assumed they were tourists, as he couldn't hear any words he recognized coming from their huddled group. If he had to venture a guess, he would have said that they were Albanian. But that, of course, was just a guess.  
So, they were his only hope.

He approached them cautiously, as a squirrel approaches a…well, he had no idea. Now was not the time for similes.  
"Excuse me," Harry asked tentatively. The group turned to face him, smiling bemusedly.  
Hoping against hope that they knew just a bit of English, he pressed on, "Do you happen to know how I could get here?" He indicated the station on the map he was holding, "I'm afraid I'm dreadfully lost. And…" He trailed off. They were still smiling at him, but now with the obvious air that they had no idea what he had just said.  
So, they didn't speak English. Okay, he could deal with that. He would just have to try a different approach.  
He knew some Spanish! He had learned a bit back in muggle school before he went to Hogwarts, and he had learned a bit more on the job, on that business trip to Madrid.  
Okay, so, granted, that might not be of much use to him. But he might as well try.  
Right?  
"Soy perdido," Harry attempted. (This, of course, is truer than he could have ever imagined. (By the way, excuse my intrusion, but I love making Spanish jokes.))  
The women simply managed to look even more confused, if that was at all possible. And the largest one of them winked cheekily at him. That was kind of disconcerting.  
Harry sighed audibly. There was really only one method of communication left, one that he really did not favour: pointing and grunting… so to speak.  
There was a large map painted on the wall not far from their currently location, so Harry pointed at it. "Look," he said, not like he expected them to understand, but the noise did the trick. They turned to face the direction he was pointing and realization dawned on their faces. Thanking whatever higher power that may exist, he followed the women over to the wall.  
It took them about twenty minutes to figure out a way to communicate, and another ten minutes after that to finally get the directions he needed. Praying that he still had time to get there, he bade farewell to his newfound friends:  
"Thanks again," he said sincerely, hoping that his expression of gratitude would transcend the language barrier.  
"Don't mention it." Apparently it did.  
"Wait, you could speak English?" Harry asked incredulously.  
"Sure," answered one of the women, "but it was just so cute watching you struggle. You were like a little, lost puppy."  
Harry wasn't sure which annoyed him more: that they had let him struggle though trying to communicate when he was so obviously distraught, or that that lady had just equated him to a small furry animal. So, he just kept his mouth shut.  
"Well, run along then. If I'm not mistaken, you have a train to catch."  
Harry walked away, simply shaking his head.

Harry finally reached his destination. He was sure that the building's grand lobby would have been a fantastic sight, were it not the fact that he had no time to examine it. He threw one wistful glance at the Starbucks, making a silent vow that he would stop in on the return journey.  
He approached the front desk, purpose-driven. He drummed his fingers against it with a purpose. He cleared his throat with a purpose. He even said, "Excuse me," in a very annoyed tone, with a purpose. He was a man on a mission, or at least that was what he liked to think.  
The man behind the desk finally deigned to turn around wearing a "holier-than-thou" expression as he did so. "Yes?" he asked, not turning his attention away from his fingernails, which seemed to be of more interest than whatever Harry's query could be.  
"I'm looking for the Open House," Harry asked, (again with purpose).  
"Do you have an appointment?"  
"No, but-"  
The man cut him off. "Then I'm sorry, I can't help you."  
"It's an open house! There aren't appointments. That's kind of the point." Harry was more than a little frustrated.  
"Fine," the man sighed grumpily, as he was now quite aware that Harry was not afraid of making a scene. "Floor six. The elevator is right over there." He pointed to a marvelously ostentatious glass elevator right next to the Sarbucks's entrance.  
Cursing its blessed aroma of coffee for tempting him, Harry rushed past Starbucks (again) and hurried into the elevator, jamming the button with just a bit more fervor than he had meant to.  
The elevator took an extremely long time to ascend, which he really couldn't tell whether this was from his anticipation or the fact that the elevator was just slow. Sure, it had a lovely view, but really, all of this showiness was wholly unnecessary.  
When the elevator doors finally opened, he was sure he was going to go insane. He had never been very good at handling anticipation of this sort, because let's face it; he was not a social sort of person. He would take a battle with Voldemort any day over trying to make a good first impression.  
He approached the only door in the hallway and knocked.

There was no answer.  
So, he knocked again.  
But, again, no answer.

Well, that was certainly anticlimactic.

There was a small peephole in the door just about at Harry's eyelevel, and if he squinted his left eye in just the right way, he could sort of see inside the apartment. Sort of. But that was the only thing that was going to entertain him right now.

"Excuse me," said a voice from behind him, making him jump, "You're blocking my door."

That voice was familiar, all too familiar.  
Harry turned slowly, seeing what he hoped he had imagined.

It couldn't be.

It just couldn't be.

A/N: Georgina: Hello, all! Sorry it took so long! I have been impossibly busy recently and have been neglecting my duties as a co-author of a fanfic. I wrote this chapter mostly alone.

Peaches: Hey! I helped!

Georgina: That's why I said "mostly". Goodness. So, I apologize for the crappiness of this chapter. I had to set up some things. It will get better. Don't worry.

Peaches: Don't forget to review.

Georgina: Yes, that's right. Again flames will be ridiculed, perhaps even publicly so, (if poorly punctuated).

Peaches: Yeah, if you are going to criticize us, please at least use proper grammar to do it.

Georgina: Thank you to all of you that reviewed. We love you. And thank you to all of you that just read our story.

Peaches: But you should still review.

Georgina: Definitely.

Peaches: I won't give you a date for our next update, because we can't promise we'll actually stick to it.

Georgina: Yeah, we work better without deadlines.

Peaches: I just wish our teachers knew that.

Georgina: Yeah…

Peaches: So, see you soon… maybe.


	3. The Political Theory

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, in a magical place called the basement of Pancakes's house, the authors owned nothing. Well, perhaps this is a bit of an overstatement; they owned quite a lot. They did not, however, own the Harry Potter characters, or anything of that nature. Except in the domain of fanfiction; here the characters of Harry Potter were like the monkey bars on the playground of doom. But we don't own them. We just own the ideas. Okay, so we may have stolen those, too. But… well, yeah. Read on!

Summary: Do you like pancakes? Do you like shot glasses? Well, then have we got a story for you! Warning: May not actually include pancakes or shot glasses.

A/N…in advance (oh, my): Forgive the formatting of the last chapter. Due to my lack of knowledge and a slight oversight, I managed to royally screw that up. And then, of course, I was far too lazy to fix it. I hope you were not too terribly upset by it. Alright, don't let me distract you from reading. I'm not distracting you, am I? Am I?! Well, I guess not.

_The Political Theory of Possessive Individualism_

Harry Potter greatly resisted the urge to scream. Not only would it not have done the situation justice, but it would certainly do little to wipe the sneer off the newcomer's face.

Perhaps he was mistaken; maybe his eyes were just playing tricks on him? Hmm, let's see:

Item: one head: covered with perfectly styled platinum-blonde hair.

Item: two eyes: steel grey, cold with the slightest glint of malice.

Item: one mouth: upturned in its customary, aristocratic sneer.

Okay, so there wasn't really any reason to continue with that. The man standing before him could be no one else but Draco Malfoy.

And everything had been going so well.

"Potter," Malfoy spat distastefully.

"Malfoy," replied Harry warily.

"Would you mind telling me what exactly you are doing standing outside of my apartment?"

"Hold on a second, Malfoy. This is your apartment?"

"Indeed, Potter. It seems as if your brilliant skills of deduction may have finally surfaced. As you may have noticed, there is only one apartment on this floor, and I believe that even you, with all of your incompetence, could realize that I don't function on the premise of spontaneity."

It took Harry all of thirty seconds to figure out what Malfoy had actually said.

"I was merely surprised that the Great Draco Malfoy would deem muggles worthy to live in his presence." Damn, that was good.

"Ah, Potter, I seen your puny brain has not been able to transcend our school years. I suppose you still think that I'm a Death Eater as well?" His tone was off-handed, but his body betrayed his true feelings; his jaw was clenched, his eyes taking on an angry glint.

Harry did not actually believe that Malfoy was still a Death Eater. However, at this point in time, he was feeling more than a bit harassed; and that led him to make perhaps the stupidest comment of his entire day, including the subway fiasco:

"Yes, Malfoy, I hadn't believed you capable of rising above groveling at a madman's feet."

After all of their fights in all of their years at Hogwarts, this was all it took to make Draco Malfoy snap. He furiously whipped out his wand, brandishing it at Harry; the anger in his eyes turning from slightly pissed off to unadulterated rage.

Shit, that was dumb.

"Potter, if you had managed to pull your over inflated head out of your ass, you may have realized that the Wizengamot had cleared me of all Death Eater charges five years ago, and I have been innocent ever since." As he said this, he slowly stalked toward Harry, menacing and calculating. Harry, however, stood his ground. In a matter of seconds they were mere inches away from each other.

"Malfoy, this might not be the best idea, seeing as we are in a muggle building," he muttered, hoping to make Malfoy see reason.

This logic was effective, as Malfoy put his wand away, but he did still look like he was about to strangle Harry.

"Listen, I'm sorry. I don't actually think you're a Death Eater, I just… I haven't been having the best day, and this whole confrontation was a bit unexpected. And I guess things just got out of hand. I'll just go now." He maneuvered his way around the other man, and walked toward the elevator, feeling thoroughly annoyed. The elevator doors had just opened when he heard Malfoy speak behind him:

"No, no that's impossible. You, and here, and … and no! Definitely, no."

"What are you on about?" Harry turned, gawking at him in confusion.

"You weren't…" he trailed off, quite embarrassed.

"Yeah, yeah I was," Harry confessed.

"No."

"Yeah."

"No."

"Yes!"

"Oh…well, you aren't still interested, are you?"

"What?!"

Malfoy was definitely embarrassed now. "About the apartment, you're the only one who showed up."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I kind of need a roommate, and I know it will be difficult. But if you're still interested."

"As long as you promise not to murder me in my sleep or something." Harry smiled.

"I would never do something so cowardly. If I'm going to kill you, I would at least be courteous enough to do it when you're awake," the blonde retorted, regaining some of his Malfoy pride.

"Fair enough."

The men stood their awkwardly for a moment.

"We don't have to shake hands or anything, right?" Harry asked disdainfully.

"Oh, God, no."

Harry smiled; actually glad for once that nothing had really changed.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

('Cause that just looks awesome.)

Malfoy's apartment was a grand as Harry had thought it would be. The small entrance hallway opened into a magnificent foyer bathed in the palest grayish-blue tones. The floor was a polished mahogany with matching paneling. The couches were elegant and arranged in an avant-garde manner. The walls were decorated with a collection of ornaments: paintings, tapestries, and the like. There were enough to create certain flair, but not enough to appear garish. The paintings were of the Impressionist era; Harry recognized a few as being by Monet. They softened the cool indifference with their warmth. A pair of French doors led out onto a balcony, which overlooked what appeared to be a private enclosure.

Harry was convinced within two seconds, and since the couch lacked a certain redhead and his bookish companion, he was sold.

"Definitely," Harry said to Malfoy.

"But you haven't even seen the rest of the apartment," the man protested.

"And?"

"I just thought you might want see where you might be staying."

"Not important."

"Well, just so you know, there are bedrooms down the left hallway. My bedroom is on the left, but there are two available bedrooms on the right. I would suggest the farthest, as it has the best view and is closest to the library. To the right are the formal living room, the dining room, and the kitchen," Malfoy informed Harry, as if he had had a much longer speech prepared. Harry nodded appreciatively at this gesture.

"So, how much?" Harry asked, marveling at his good fortune.

"Oh," Malfoy waved the query aside, "it's nothing."

"Are you serious?" questioned Harry incredulously, "What are you playing at?"

"Well, I thought the agreement was quite obvious. I pay for the apartment, and my roommate does the cooking and cleaning."

"So, I'm your live-in maid?"

"Well, when you put it that way," Malfoy muttered irritably.

"Why don't you just hire someone?"

"Well, I did…but they quit."

"I'm not surprised."

Malfoy sneered at him. "Anyhow, Potter, I decided to consider my other options, and well, this is where things ended up."

There ensued a tense moment in which each man stared at the other, trying to discern the other's motive. Harry soon realized that this was an impossible task, as reading anything from those shrewd, calculating eyes was hopeless. He only saw a slight triumph flash across them for a brief second: Malfoy had won, and he most certainly knew it.

It was also in that moment that a bond formed between them. It wasn't a friendship, nor was it a mutual hatred. It was an alliance of convenience; an agreement between two eminently desperate people. It was an association that would only last as long as the involved parties still needed each other.

And finally, in the aforementioned moment, a question formed in Harry's mind; a question that threatened to upset the newly fashioned truce:

"Are you single?"

Malfoy threw him a quizzical glance. "Yes, but -"

"Perfect," Harry interrupted exultantly, "When can I move in?"

A/N: Peaches: Dude, we wrote another one!

Georgina: Yeah, I know.

Peaches: Okay, we have lots of stuff to tell you!

Georgina: We most certainly do.

Peaches: First off, as you may have figured out, this story is going to be slash.

Georgina: As we all know, slash means that this will be a homosexual relationship.

Peaches: If you don't like it, stop reading.

Georgina: And please don't send us any flames like this:

"eEeeewww!!1 tHaTs sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo GROS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! u r gonna go to hel! read teh bibel!!!!!11!!!"

Or I will be forced to mock you…severely.

Peaches: For their close-mindedness?

Georgina: No, for the atrocity that was their flame. That callous disregard for the English language makes my skin crawl.

Peaches: I have to agree.

Georgina: Oh, and our other development! We are starting a trivia game!

Peaches: Trivia? What do they win if they get it right?

Georgina: Well, ummm….. They can have my undying love…and Peaches's firstborn child.

Peaches: I don't think that's going to work.

Georgina: Why?

Peaches: Well, I already owe my firstborn child to someone else.

Georgina: How did that happen?

Peaches: It's a long story…

Georgina: I don't even want to know.

Peaches: Anyhow, the question for this chapter is:

Georgina: Who wrote _The Political Theory of Possessive Individualism_?

Peaches: Dude, that's hard.

Georgina: They could just google it.

Peaches: That's a good point.

Georgina: Also, did anyone get my Spanish joke last chapter?

Peaches: I sure didn't.

Georgina: Yeah, well you take French.

Peaches: It still wasn't funny.

Georgina: Shut up! It was utterly hilarious! Bow to my powers of hilarity!!

Peaches: You're kind of crazy.

Georgina: Kind of?

Peaches: Well, read and review, dearies!

Georgina: Indeed!


	4. Blame the Penguins

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, in a magical place called the basement of Pancakes's house, the authors owned nothing. Well, perhaps this is a bit of an overstatement; they owned quite a lot. They did not, however, own the Harry Potter characters, or anything of that nature. Except in the domain of fanfiction; here the characters of Harry Potter were like the monkey bars on the playground of doom. But we don't own them. We just own the ideas. Okay, so we may have stolen those, too. But… well, yeah. Read on!

Summary: Do you like pancakes? Do you like shot glasses? Well, then have we got a story for you! Warning: May not actually include pancakes or shot glasses.

Blame the Penguins

(Peaches: 'Cause penguins are sexy beasts.

Georgina: Oh, my. Don't want to know.)

Harry Potter did not mind unlocking his front door, as it seemed to be the last time that he would ever do so. He even reveled in the fact that the task took him twice as long as it normally did. He didn't yell, or scream, or even curse the god of keyholes profanely. And when he finally got the door open, he was content; not even the sight of Ron and Hermione could upset him now.

But they weren't there. On top of that, the apartment was quiet: too quiet. Harry could only hear the faint traces of what seemed to be a song.

Blinded by his good fortune, he made his way towards his bedroom in order to pack his belongings. As soon as he opened the door, he noticed that three things were extremely wrong:

Ron and Hermione were in his room and on his bed.

They appeared to have just discovered role-playing.

Ron made a very convincing schoolgirl.

Ron was stripping to "Bounce" by Aaron Carter, and Hermione was holding a whip. A more disturbing sight, Harry would never behold.

What the fuck.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry cried, closing his eyes to block out the scene before him. Ron and Hermione apparently hadn't noticed his presence before this moment. Ron let out a girlish shriek before hiding himself behind Hermione's leather-clad frame.

"Harry, it's simple role-playing. I would think you would have read about this sort of thing," Hermione answered plainly. Harry really didn't know if he should be offended by the fact that she had said "read" instead "had". Ron continued to cower.

"But in my room?" Harry asked, still fantastically annoyed.

"It was kinkier?" Ron offered, poking his head out from behind Hermione.

"Well, if you don't mind finishing that elsewhere, I would request that you get out of my room."

Hermione took the hint. Ron did not.

"It's okay, mate. It becomes far less kinky now that you're here," he said, finally emerging from his shelter.

Hermione grabbed Ron roughly by the elbow and proceeded to slap him upside the head. She dragged him out of the room, much to his chagrin.

"Ow, 'Mione, what was that for?" he protested loudly, "I was just telling him the truth."

"Shut up, Ron!" Another slap and yelp could be heard from the hall.

Harry sighed in resignation. Oh, well, he'd be moving in with Malfoy tomorrow.

He began to pack; he had to do it manually, as Tonks had been the only one to try and teach him a packing spell, and hers was slightly lacking. However, this action calmed him, hopefully ensuring that he did not scream at Ron and Hermione during their final meal as roommates. Packing took long enough that Harry was starving by the time he'd finished. He was beyond cooking dinner; it had just been too long of a day.

"Hey, guys. I'm ordering Chinese," he called to Ron and Hermione, not daring to approach their room; God only knows what he might find in there.

"That's so sweet!" Hermione cried, emerging from Ron's and her love nest. Thankfully, she was fully clothed.

"What, Chinese food?" Ron asked, joining her. He wore his customary expression of bewilderment.

"Ron, don't you remember that we had Chinese food on our first night as roommates?" Hermione chided him.

"No," he replied frankly.

"We did?" Harry asked.

"Honestly, you two, it's symbolic!" an extremely disgruntled Hermione muttered.

"If you say so," Ron said.

"Men," murmured Hermione disapprovingly.

A couple of containers of General Gau's chicken and some pork lo mein later, Harry was tired enough to fall into a deep sleep: something that had been uncommon since Moody's lessons of "constant vigilance." He didn't even remember that Ron and Hermione had been participating in unmentionable acts in that very same bed until the next morning. Upon this realization, he promptly headed for the shower, and made a mental note to burn his sheets.

He didn't have a chance to say goodbye to his former roommates, as they were too busy being cooped up in their….well, Harry had run out of creative euphemisms. He left them a brief note, before grabbing his suitcases and exiting his apartment. He chuckled slightly: it wasn't really his apartment anymore.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

(Georgina: Again, that just looks cool)

Traffic was extremely heavy; heavier than it should have been at ten in the morning. But Harry wasn't complaining. A good hour later, his cab pulled up to the front of Malfoy's building.

"Thanks," he said, retrieving his luggage and paying the driver.

The driver nodded in response before screeching away, leaving Harry standing outside.

Well, here goes nothing.

He strolled into the building, desperately hoping that this wouldn't be too catastrophic. Needless to say, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Harry turned to face the speaker, and sighed when he realized that it was the same irritating clerk that had accosted him the day before. He approached the desk in annoyance: a state which seemed to be becoming permanent.

"I'm here to see Draco Malfoy," he responded politely, "I know where his apartment is, thank you." He attempted to walk away, but the man called him back.

"I don't have anything written down," he said sharply.

"Well, I'm his new roommate. I don't really need an appointment."

"Do you have any proof of that?"

"Any proof of what?"

"Proof that you're his new roommate."

"No, but-"

"Really, Butterfield," interjected someone behind Harry, "don't you have anything productive to do?"

"Mr. Malfoy, I-"

Again Malfoy interrupted him, seeming more bored than anything else, "See to it that Potter's things are brought to my apartment. And make sure the movers don't hang around too long; I would like to actually be able to return before dinner."

"Certainly, Mr. Malfoy," Butterfield said humbly.

"Oh, and, Butterfield?" he threw the words out carelessly.

"Yes?"

"You would do well to remember to call me sir." And with that, he swept off imperiously, leaving Harry to follow in his wake.

Only a Malfoy, Harry thought, following after him.

"Thanks, "he said, catching up to his roommate.

The other man didn't respond, but Harry knew that Malfoy had heard him.

"So, I was thinking we could get some coffee while we wait," Malfoy suggested civilly, "That is, if you like coffee."

"Well, 'like' is one way to put it." Harry smiled.

"Excellent."

"Oh, my God, Draco!" cried a female voice as soon as Harry and Malfoy entered Starbucks. "Draco, I haven't seen you in forever." A petite, blonde barista poked her head out from behind an espresso machine.

"I know, Melinda," Malfoy returned, crossing the establishment to reach the counter (Harry behind him).

"I thought you had forgotten about me." Melinda let a fake pout play across her face.

"Forget about such a radiant beauty?" Malfoy scoffed, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

"Well, you aren't bad-looking yourself, Draco," she rejoined. The remarks had the air of an old custom about them.

"And who's this?" she inquired of Harry, the nostalgia fading from her words.

"This is P- Harry," Malfoy corrected himself, the name rolling awkwardly off his tongue nonetheless, "He's my new roommate."

"Harry," she said, familiarizing herself with the name. "Well, Harry, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Same here, Melinda," Harry replied.

"Well, what can I get you two?" she asked, realizing that she was still working.

"My usual, of course," Malfoy answered.

"One iced, triple, Venti, vanilla, non-fat, no whip latte," Melinda recited perfectly to her co-worker. "What about you, Harry?"

"Umm, I'll have a Venti Peppermint Mocha." (Georgina: Mmmm…..Peppermint Mocha.)

Melinda set about fixing the drinks, even pushing her fellow barista out of the way to fix Malfoy's coffee. "You aren't doing it right, hon'," she explained.

"So," she began over the sounds of percolating coffee, "how long have you two been together?"

"What?!" Harry and Malfoy cried simultaneously.

"Oh, well I just thought that since you're roommates and all…" she trailed off.

"No," Harry said forcefully.

"Dear God, no," Malfoy exclaimed.

"Well, that's unfortunate. You're quite good-looking, Harry. Maybe even cuter than Draco."

Harry smiled awkwardly.

"'Maybe' being the operative term," Malfoy muttered, with a tinge of feigned sullenness.

"Oh, stop whining, Draco," Melinda said good-naturedly. "So, if you guys aren't dating, where did you meet?"

"We went to the same boarding school," Harry replied.

"Oh, the one in Scotland? Draco's mentioned it before."

"Yeah, that's the one," said Harry.

"I bet that was fun."

"It was interesting," Malfoy returned, "I'll give it that."

Harry found that he could easily tolerate the company of this Draco Malfoy. He was certainly not the boy Harry had despised at Hogwarts. He was genial, playful, and polite. But Harry realized this was only for Melinda's benefit; were she not present, Malfoy and Harry would be at each other's throats.

"Oh, your drinks; I almost forgot." Melinda handed them the cups. "I'll see you, Draco, Harry."

"See you, Melinda," echoed Harry and Malfoy.

"She's-" Harry began, sitting down with Malfoy at a table near the window.

"A muggle?" Malfoy questioned in slight aggravation.

"I was going to say nice."

"Oh," Malfoy said, "yeah."

"Bit presumptuous, are we, Malfoy?"

"Well, Potter, after your comment about my previous stint as a Death Eater, I assumed you still thought I held the same disregard for muggles in general."

"Look, Malfoy, I apologized for that yesterday. And, if you can't get past it, our living together is going to get, if possible, even more awkward. I don't believe you're a Death Eater; end of story."

Malfoy did not deign to respond. He simply changed the topic:

"How did you know that this was a muggle building anyway?"

"Well, when I entered, no one either tried to kill me nor did they ask for my autograph, ergo, muggle building."

"As I have said, your brilliant deductive skills have begun to surface."

"Meh, it's the coffee that brings them out."

Malfoy almost laughed. Almost. A slight smile played at the corners of his lips, but that was about it.

"Why did you ask me if I was single yesterday?" Malfoy ejaculated suddenly. (Georgina: No, not like that, you gutter-minded individuals.)

"Oh, that." Harry looked away sheepishly.

"Yes?"

"Well, you know how I was living with Ron?"

"No, but I suppose that seems logical."

"So, then Hermione moves in and…you know…"

"Not particularly."

"Well, Ron and Hermione sort of started dating, and, you know, stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Yes, stuff."

"Your vocabulary never ceases to impress me, Potter," Malfoy paused, "What do you mean by stuff?"

"They turned my apartment into their own private fuck hole!"

"Ah, stuff."

"So, I just wanted to make sure-"

"You just wanted to make sure that history would not repeat itself? Never fear, Potter, even if I weren't single, I am far more subtle."

"Thanks for that," Harry offered awkwardly.

"I understand your situation, to be sure."

Harry hoped that Malfoy would elaborate. He did.

"I used to live with Blaise and Pansy, before I moved in here, I mean."

"And?"

"They were…intimate."

"I see."

"I couldn't take it anymore! There are some things that human eyes should never see."

"Like Ron in a schoolgirl outfit," Harry muttered absentmindedly.

Malfoy gagged on his coffee.

"That is perhaps the most disgusting thing I have ever heard. The Weasel? I think I might need to throw up."

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to see it."

"Oh, God, I feel your pain. One time, Blaise and Pansy played Catholic priest and altar boy. That was grosser than gross." (Peaches: TOMPKINS! Georgina: Oh, my.)

"Why did you move in with them anyways?" Harry asked, intrigued, "I mean, why aren't you living in the Manor?"

"My parents did not respect my privacy," Malfoy responded diplomatically.

"How so?"

"Do you really want me to explain?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

"Sure."

"Well, as you so eloquently put it, they walked in on me when I was in the middle of…stuff."

"Oh." Harry was surprised to find himself blushing slightly. Malfoy was a grown adult, and had had sex. It was just interesting, he supposed, that naught but five years ago, he and Malfoy were bitter rivals, and today they were discussing their sex lives.

Oh, how things could change.

"Mr. Malfoy." Butterfield stood behind them. Neither had noticed his approach.

Malfoy turned, and shot him a disparaging glance.

"I mean, sir," Butterfield corrected himself blusteringly, "the movers are finished."

"Hmm, it took them less time than I had expected." Malfoy glanced coolly down at his watch. "Thank you, Butterfield. You may take your leave."

"You're welcome, sir," and with that, he departed.

"Well, I suggest that we adjourn to the apartment. That way I could give you the official tour." Of course, that wasn't really a request.

"Sure, Malfoy."

The winds of change, indeed.

A/N: Peaches: I'm tired!

Georgina: Quiet, you, we need to write our brilliantly crafted author's note. Actually, in this case, it would be authors' note.

Peaches: Pcha, what do you mean "brilliantly crafted"? You make it up as you go.

Georgina: Well, they certainly don't need to know that.

Peaches: I told them.

Georgina: Someone's a bit touchy today.

Peaches: That's because slave-driver Georgina won't let me sleep.

Georgina: Sleep is for lesser beings.

Peaches: Just give 'em the damn trivia question and let me go to bed.

Georgina: Peaches, how dare you abandon what is most sacred?! Without our authors' note, millions of children may die…or something.

Peaches: Well, I have only one intention for this authors' note, apart from annoying you: to give props to Hitori-Hoshi for being the **only **one to answer the trivia question, and getting it right!

Georgina: Yay! You receive my undying love and 3/8 of Peaches's firstborn child.

Peaches: I made an arrangement.

Georgina: Don't want to know.

Peaches: So, all you people who didn't answer the trivia question last week…

Georgina: SHAME!!!

Peaches: Here's a chance to redeem yourself!

Georgina: The trivia question is:

Peaches: Why are we blaming the penguins?

Georgina: Answer it, or else…

Peaches: You better answer: she's creepy when she's angry.

Georgina: Indeed.

Peaches: And now to sleep.

Georgina: Thank you, all, for your continued reading…ness…osity. My goodness, I must be tired. Look at that horrible grammar!

Peaches: Sleep now, insane woman!

Georgina: Okay, okay.


	5. PanAsian Cuisine

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, in a magical place called the basement of Pancakes's house, the authors owned nothing. Well, perhaps this is a bit of an overstatement; they owned quite a lot. They did not, however, own the Harry Potter characters, or anything of that nature. Except in the domain of fanfiction; here the characters of Harry Potter were like the monkey bars on the playground of doom. But we don't own them. We just own the ideas. Okay, so we may have stolen those, too. But… well, yeah. Read on!

Summary: Do you like pancakes? Do you like shot glasses? Well, then have we got a story for you! Warning: May not actually include pancakes or shot glasses.

Pan-Asian Cuisine

"Here are your keys." Malfoy presented Harry with an extremely ornate set of silver keys. Harry sighed as he took them: how he despised these irksome contraptions. Would he ever be rid of their ill-fitting evil?

Malfoy smoothly inserted his key into the lock and turned it with one easy motion. Damn Malfoy.

Malfoy led Harry through the elegant hallway into the living room for a second time. "So," he began upon their arrival at their destination, "I suppose I should show you around." Harry nodded in response, waiting for his new roommate to continue.

"This is, of course, the living room." Again, Harry nodded. "Through those doors is the balcony. It has rather nice view of the courtyard." Harry peered out the French doors at these words, but did not have much time to inspect Malfoy's claim, as the other man had already swept off towards the hall that Harry recalled led to the bedrooms.

"Potter, would you at least try to pay attention?" he called back.

"Fine." He joined Malfoy in the hall.

Malfoy opened the door, revealing an ostentatious yet comfortable bedroom.

"Is this your bedroom?" Harry inquired.

"As if I would live in such a hovel," Malfoy scoffed. "No, this is the guest room."

Harry shook his head; he was not going to bother trying to reason with him.

"If you're entirely finished…"

"Yes, yes."

Malfoy opened the second door on the right, into which he ushered Harry.

"This is your room," he announced.

Harry looked around. He knew instantly that the room suited him. It was cozy, and reminded him immensely of the Gryffindor dorm rooms. Situated in the middle of the room was a four-poster bed, not unlike his own from Hogwarts, though without the curtains. The color scheme was burgundy with a cream border at the top. Hmm… cream. Harry had never realized how suggestive the word could be. Well, he would just call that shade…white-people-colored. Yes, that suited it nicely. The whole of the room was decorated in the same tones.

"So… this is nice," Harry began, "It actually looks like you give a shit."

"Not really, my pride would simply not allow me to have a room in my apartment that reflects what opinion I actually hold of you."

"Charming."

Malfoy sneered in reply. "May I continue with my tour now?" Without waiting for an answer, he walked out into the hall, leaving Harry no choice but to follow him

"That," he said, pointing to a mahogany door across the hall, "is my room. If you so much as touch the door, I will personally tie you to the floor, skin you alive, and force you to eat your own liver." He smiled in a way that suggested that he was completely serious. It was rather creepy.

Harry was about to point out that, were he to be skinned alive, it would be nearly impossible for him to eat his liver, as he would have most likely died from the blood loss, and even if that were not the case, the pain would have prevented his ability to chew. Well, unless he had anesthesia. But that really wasn't the point. The safest thing to do would be to simply nod and change the subject.

Luckily, Malfoy did this for him:

"So, anyhow, let's continue to the library." Malfoy gestured him forward.

The library showed a meticulous care and organization, the likes of which had been previously unseen by Harry in Malfoy's apartment. True, his décor was planned to the letter, but there was something different about the way this room was presented. It was warmer and quite homey. The room was walled with shelves full of books, and a large window allowed for sun to illuminate the desks and armchairs that were strewn about the area.

"This is your favorite room, isn't it?" Harry asked, more perceptively than usual.

Malfoy looked at him for a moment, seemingly considering something. "I find reading to be the most soothing and sophisticated of all pastimes, yes."

Harry gave a long, suffering sigh. "That doesn't really answer the question."

Malfoy reciprocated the sigh. "This is my favorite room."

"Thank you. Where to now?"

Malfoy turned and headed back down the hallway towards the living room. He crossed the expanse and opened a swinging door. Wait!: a swinging door?! It was then that Harry realized he had made the right decision when he had chosen to move in with Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy poked his out of the door and looked at Harry impatiently.

"Well, are you coming?"

"Oh." He returned from his reverie. "Right."

He exultantly pushed open the swinging door, which revealed a tremendous kitchen.

"So, I suppose this is my domain?" Harry joked good-naturedly.

"Pretty much, yeah."

Harry sighed yet again. Pretentious bastard. But, he had to admit, if he were forced to cook anywhere, this would be at the top of his list. As kitchens go, this one was impressive. State-of-the-art technology and plenty of counter space. Oh, and a vast array of very big, very pointy-looking knives. Harry smiled: he just might have fun in here.

"Potter, if you're done grinning like a homicidal lunatic, I'll show you the dining room."

The dining room was connected to the kitchen by yet another swinging door, and its décor was in accordance with the rest of the apartment: tasteful and elegant. Malfoy led him through an open archway back to the living room.

"Well, I guess that concludes the tour. I suppose you'd like to go to your room and unpack?"

"Hang on a second, Malfoy. Where does that door lead?" Harry pointed to a door across from the balcony.

"That's unimportant." Nonetheless, Malfoy moved to block the door. "I saw you eyeing the balcony earlier. Why don't you go check it out?"

"You're avoiding the subject. As a resident of this apartment, I feel that I have the right to know where that door leads."

"Potter, it leads nowhere. And even if it did lead somewhere, it would be somewhere that is my personal and private property. As such, I politely request that you cease any and all questions on the matter."

"I could just go in there, you know."

"Not without the key," Malfoy said with all the maturity of a twelve-year-old.

Damn. Harry had let his over-developed curiosity get the better of him once again: he just had to know what Malfoy was guarding. This was a matter for another day, however.

"Oh," Malfoy exclaimed suddenly, catching sight of the time on the grandfather clock in the living room. "I have to go."

"Where?" Harry inquired as Malfoy brushed past him.

"Out," Malfoy replied with an infuriating smirk as he departed.

Harry knew better than to contemplate to where Malfoy had disappeared. More than likely, it was something about which he did not care to know. So, he instead turned his mind to more entertaining, not to mention less disturbing, topics:

Alone in Malfoy's apartment…Oh, what damage and destruction he could cause. Or, he could snoop, which seemed the more satisfying option.

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Harry opened the doors to the library. The sun was streaming through the windows; and despite the impeccable organization, the whole room had a singularly inviting aura. Ah, yes: this would do nicely. While Malfoy's bedroom would be great fun to look through, Harry was just slightly terrified that Malfoy would follow through with his threat, and Harry had no inclination to discover whether or not that feat was possible. There was also the mysterious door, but Harry was not well versed in the art of lock-picking, so that little journey could not yet occur.

The library, being Malfoy's self-proclaimed favorite room, would do just fine for his snooping interlude. He would take stock of what books Malfoy had deemed fit to have a place in the library, and in doing so, would ascertain Malfoy's favorite book. Hopefully, it would be _Emily and the Scot_, or some other such smutty, blackmail-worthy, romance novel. Not that Harry knew the titles of these types of books, or anything like that. Anyways...

What luck! Harry spotted a book laying open on the desk nearest the window. He crossed to it and picked it up. After flipping through a few pages, he soon realized that he could not read any of it, mainly because it was written in French. He looked at the cover: _Candide _by Voltaire. Twenty minutes only found Plato's _Republic_, _Discourses on Livy_, _The Spirit of the Laws_, _The Social Contract_, as well as books by Hegel, the twelve-volume _A Study of History_ by Arnold J. Toynbee, and several books by Robert Buckholtz. And this was only one shelf! It was worse than he had thought: not only had he heard of less than half of these, these were certainly not blackmail-worthy books. Curses.

These could not be all the books Malfoy possessed. Not even Malfoy was that perfect. Somewhere there had to be books of which he was ashamed. But, of course, these books would not be placed out in the open; they would be hidden. Harry looked around. Where were the good hiding places?

Hmm…under the sink might be a bit obscure. What about a guarded trapdoor? Too first year. Of course: behind a painting! It was so obvious. Malfoy had several paintings in the living room, so it would be conceivable that he would hide something there.

Harry was just deciding whether destroying Malfoy's property was worth the chance of blackmail when his cell phone rang. (Georgina: Yes, Harry has a cell phone; it is the 21st century, you know.)

"Hello?" he asked, answering it.

"Hey, Harry? Harry, are you there?" inquired a frantic voice.

"Well, I did just answer my phone, Ron."

"Oh, right." He sounded far-off, and a little dazed.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, it's horrible!"

"What is it?" Harry was beginning to worry.

"It's Hermione."

"What about her?"

"She's… she's…"

"What, Ron?"

"She's making me go shopping!"

This was worse than he had expected. "Oh, that is bad," he agreed.

"Yeah, and that's not the worst of it."

"Really?"

"She's making me go Christmas shopping," moaned Ron, "So, for three hours I'll be expected to say things like: 'Yes, Hermione; that cat sweater would make a lovely gift for your third cousin Mildred, whom I have never before met.' It's torture!"

"That's rough."

"Yeah, it's not even worth the post-shopping sex."

"Didn't need to know."

"Sorry."

Harry sighed. "So, let me guess: you called me because you want me to go with you, so we can make up the male majority and perhaps overthrow our tyrannical female oppressor?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'll be over in a half-hour."

"You serious?"

"Yeah, I have to go Christmas shopping anyways. Maybe we'll even have fun while we're doing it."

"I doubt that."

"Yeah, I know."

Harry hung up, suddenly panicking, though it wasn't Hermione's dictatorial shopping methods that had him worried. How was he going to tell Hermione and Ron about Malfoy? They'd undoubtedly have a fit, and demand that he move out, something he didn't really want to do; sure, it was Malfoy, but it was also a fantastic apartment.

He decided the best plan was to avoid all questions on the subject. And if it did come up, well, he'd lie like hell.

Grabbing his coat and his key, he headed for the door, wondering briefly whether he should inform Malfoy of his whereabouts. Not that Malfoy would care, but it would be polite to do so. He retrieved a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote his message, fixing it to the front door with his wand.

"Out. – H.P."

Yup, that would do it.

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Twenty-five minutes later, Harry knocked on the door of his old apartment, eyes half-closed, preparing for the worst. Thankfully, it was a fully-clothed Ron who answered the door.

"Hey, Harry," Ron said, "I'm glad you're here."

"No problem."

"Hi, Harry," Hermione called from the coat closet, "I'll be ready in a minute. Ron, where's my coat?"

"I think you left it in the bathroom," he replied.

"Why would be in there?" she mused, heading toward the aforementioned room.

"Well, you took it off when we-"

"Please, stop," interrupted Harry.

"Sorry," both apologized.

Shortly, Hermione, newly coated, emerged from the bathroom and grabbed her keys from the hook next to the door.

"Okay, let's go."

Ron threw a sidelong, suffering glance at Harry. Harry smiled sympathetically in return.

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The mall. This was dangerous territory; a place into which Harry Potter very rarely ventured. But with the fearless and distinctly female Hermione Granger as his guide, this contraption of modern shopping was not the anxiety-inducing deathtrap that Harry normally found it.

"So, Harry," Hermione began, "who do you have left to shop for?"

"Everyone," he answered sheepishly.

"Well, then, you better start shopping," she said, starting to head in a different direction, dragging Ron with her.

"Wait, where are you going?" Harry asked, confused.

"Ron and I are just going to make a quick stop in there." She pointed to a large and brightly colored store to the right of the trio.

"Not the novelty hat store!" Ron groaned disdainfully.

"What's wrong with it? Besides, there's a hat in there my great-uncle Alfred would love."

"Well, anything for great-uncle Alfred." Ron threw up his hands in defeat.

"Catch up with you later, Harry," Hermione called, dragging a disgruntled Ron behind her.

Harry didn't waste any time pretending that he had any idea of what he was doing, so he fell back to his old standby: he would get everyone pretty much the same present that he did last year. He soon found himself purchasing matching salt and pepper shakers that were shaped like a little Dutch boy and girl for Mrs. Weasley. She too enjoyed strange novelty items. For Mr. Weasley, Harry bought a blender, as last year's toaster had been a huge success. He couldn't remember what he had gotten for the rest of the Weasley family, but he had a feeling that he had just copied what Hermione had gotten them. That seemed to be a pattern he would follow this year as well.

So, really it was just Ron and Hermione left to shop for. Hermione was fairly easy, as she made him a list every year of things she might like for Christmas. This was in order to prevent something as catastrophic as the Cow Sock Incident from occurring a second time; the first had been bad enough. Who knew Ron would be better at picking out presents than he was? Harry had always thought this task required a certain perceptiveness that Ron generally lacked, but apparently not. At the top of Hermion'es list was an anthology of literature from the High Renaissance, so he just got her that.

Ron, however, was not as simple. This would require some serious thought…and some coffee.

Several hours and shopping bags late, Harry discovered Ron sitting dejectedly outside of the same store in which he had left him.

"Hermione'll be out in a minute," he explained, "I just had to get out of there."

"Were you in there the whole time?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Yeah." Ron wallowed in self-pity. "And I thought last year's novelty sweater shop was bad."

"That sucks," Harry sympathized.

"I know. What is it with muggles and novelty items?"

"Well, wizards aren't without their trivialities. Look at Honeyduke's. I mean, acid lollipops?"

"No," Ron disagreed, "that's totally different."

Harry was about to retort when Hermione exited the store, excessively large shopping bag in hand.

"That was fun," she said emphatically.

"Yeah, it was," Ron rejoined, "if by fun you mean repeatedly stabbing my eyes out with one of Ginny's stilettos."

"There's no need to be sarcastic."

"Sorry," he apologized without sincerity.

"Now will you come look at perfumes for my aunt with me?"

"No," Ron answered sullenly.

"Ronald!" she rebuked him.

"'Mione, shopping is so boring," he protested.

"Honestly, you're acting so immature. Why don't you and Harry just go off and leave me to shop in peace?"

"Fine." Ron scowled.

"Meet up with you later?" Harry asked tentatively, not really wanting to get involved in their squabble.

It seemed as though Hermione's frustration was not spent on Harry. "Sure, at about six? I'll meet you at Starbucks, since you're probably going there anyways."

Hermione knew him too well.

"Okay, see you," Harry called after her. Ron, on the other hand, was still sulking.

"Ah," Harry sighed as they began the journey to Starbucks, "all is right with the world."

"What do you mean?"

"You fighting with Hermione. It reminds me of old times."

"You mean back when Hermione and I weren't dating and were annoyed with each other all the time and fought every ten minutes?"

"Yeah, that."

"Wait, so does that mean that she wants to go back to that? 'Cause-"

"Ron, I can't believe I have to say this to you, but: stop over-analyzing the situation."

"I resent that."

It wasn't until they were seated with their delectable coffee that Ron began speaking to Harry again.

"I've been thinking," he started.

"That's always dangerous," Harry joked.

"Hey!" Ron cried in mock outrage.

"I'm kidding."

"But, anyways." Ron seemed determined; this was never a good sign. "I think you could use a girlfriend."

"And why is that?"

"Well," Ron began cautiously, "you don't really seem that happy."

"What do you mean?" he defended himself, "Of course, I'm happy."

"It's just that, ever since I started dating Hermione, you've been sort of distant. So I figured if you had someone, then you wouldn't feel so left out."

"I don't know," he said, hesitant.

"Come on, Harry, lighten up. Give someone a chance."

"Like who?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Like her." Ron pointed to an attractive redhead chatting animatedly with her friends.

"Ron, she can't be more than sixteen."

"Oh, well, then what are her parents doing, letting her go to the mall by herself? I mean, she's going to get herself into trouble one day. She should be more careful," he blustered.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"What about her?" He pointed to a woman at the table next to the teenagers.

"Her? She has to be at least fifty!"

"Well, you know what they say: age before beauty."

"And I can see her wedding ring."

"Okay, well, that might complicate matters.

"I'll say." Harry sighed heavily. "Face it, Ron: you're just no good at picking out girls for me."

"What do you mean? I'm great!"

"Not really. I mean, every girl you've set me up with had some major issues."

"Oh, come on; name one."

"Krystal? You know, the one you met at St. Mungo's when Hermione was interning there?"

"Oh, her. What was wrong with her?"

"Well, for starters, she was a paranoid schizophrenic."

"Yeah, but she had medicine to take care of that."

"Don't forget that she was also suspected of the murder of her ex-boyfriend," Harry pointed out.

"The _alleged_ murder of her ex-boyfriend," Ron reminded, "They never found the body."

"That's supposed to comfort me?"

"Fine, Krystal wasn't my best choice," Ron conceded, "but what about…um…bar chick?"

"You mean Patricia?"

"Yeah."

"First of all, I was completely drunk when you introduced me to her. That's never the sign of a healthy relationship."

"Harry, we've all picked up someone in a bar at least once."

"Okay, fine. But what about the fact that she was absurdly religious, and on our first sober date, she discussed her plans to stamp out heresy, such as the occult."

"That's not that weird."

"She suggested public witch burnings! Do you really think that relationship would have worked out?"

"I guess not." Ron was growing desperate, his options running thin. "How about Heather?"

"Heather? She was obsessed with marriage. It was our second date, and she was booking the caterer. She even bought us matching towels."

"Veronica?"

"She was perfect."

"See?" Ron cried triumphantly, "I'm not a total failure."

"No, she was too perfect. The woman dry-cleaned her socks."

"Well, maybe they were silk socks?" Ron asked, hopeful.

"They were cotton."

"I give up."

"Hey, guys," Hermione interjected, joining them at their table, another shopping bag clutched in her hand.

"That was quick," commented Ron, all thoughts of their previous squabble erased from his mind.

"Well, without someone complaining at every turn, it took me no time at all." She looked at the expression on Ron's face, which she mistook for hurt. "No offence."

Ron smiled. "None taken, that is if it gets me out of future shopping trips."

"We'll see about that." However, the smirk on her face clearly said, 'Not a chance.'

Realizing that he was fighting a losing battle, Ron changed tactics. "So, Hermione," Ron said with his own smirk, "we were just talking about Harry's ex-girlfriends."

Harry groaned, disgruntled. "Do we have to continue? I'd rather you didn't remind me."

Hermione pointedly ignored Harry's request. "Harry, I have to say," she remarked, "you've dated some crazy girls."

"It was all Ron's fault. He can't pick out a decent girl to save his life." Hermione scowled. "For me, I mean," he covered hastily.

Hermione seemed to accept this, for she lowered her voice to that of the town gossip. "So, who have you been through already?"

"Krystal, Patricia, and Heather," Ron listed.

"Oh, so we're on Veronica, then?" asked Hermione.

"Yeah, we just started," Harry answered.

"Good. She was awful."

"Why do you think that?" Ron inquired.

"Because she was good at everything!" Hermione exclaimed. "And she was nice, too! There was no reason to hate her, yet I did, so I just seemed like a bad person because of it."

"And that's why I broke up with her," Harry stated matter-of-factly.

"But, you know who I do miss?" Hermione asked, after a moment's consideration.

"Who? Bethany?" Ron asked hopefully.

"No, not Bethany." Hermione couldn't help but comment, however. "Bethany was a complete slut. She had about four other boyfriends besides Harry."

"I thought she was okay," Ron muttered.

"You would."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She flirted with you every chance she got," she answered, annoyed.

"Not true."

"Oh, really," Hermione began, but Harry cleared his throat loudly.

"So, I think what you were about to say, Hermione, was which of my girlfriends you actually liked," he reminded her.

"Yes, right. Well, I was talking about Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth was great!" Ron agreed. "She was the only one of your girlfriends I didn't meet in a bar… or a hospital. Why'd you break up with her anyways, Harry?"

"I guess it just didn't work out," he offered lamely in response. This was an avenue down which he did not want to venture.

As always, Ron questioned him despite this. "Why, though? I mean, she was perfect for you: funny, sweet, and not to mention really pretty.

"I don't know, it's just…can we not talk about this anymore?"

Ron was about to retort, but Hermione nudged him, giving him a pointed look.

"So," Hermione started, changing the subject, "how's your roommate?"

If anything, the conversation took a turn for the worse. Harry had no interest in talking about Malfoy, or rather, not talking about Malfoy. He was a crap liar, always had been. He tended to show all of his emotions on his face without his mind's consent.

"Yeah, what's he like?" Ron asked. "Anyone we know?"

"No." Yes. "Maybe."

Crap, this was not going well.

"Did he go to Hogwarts?" Hermione pressed further.

Harry sighed inwardly. Didn't they ever realize when he didn't want to talk about something?

"Umm…yeah…but he was older than us… I think…"

"What house was he in?" Hermione, please stop.

"Ravenclaw," he lied.

"Does he have a name?" Ron asked, just a tad frustrated with Harry's elusive behavior.

Harry thought quickly. "Yeah, it's, um, Jesse. Jesse McCartney."

Oh, great; now he'd gone and done it. As soon he said that, he remembered that Jesse McCartney was a muggle celebrity. A singer if he recalled correctly. This was quite bad.

But, surprisingly, it didn't seem as if they caught his bluff. Hermione had never really been too involved in muggle pop culture, and, frankly, Ron wasn't really that observant.

"Wait, I think I remember him," Hermione said. "Was he in Fred and George's year?"

"Yeah," Harry lied.

"I don't remember him," Ron remarked.

"Yes, but you don't remember most things, dear," Hermione chided lovingly. She turned back to Harry, a plan in mind. "So, what are you going to get Jesse for Christmas?"

"I knew this was a segue to more shopping," Ron moaned.

"Quiet, you." She shushed Ron before returning to Harry. "So?" she asked expectantly.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Harry said. Truthfully, he hadn't. Buying presents for Malfoy? That was hardly likely.

"Well, you should get him something."

"Wait, let me guess," Harry started, slightly irritated, "you subscribe to Ron's theory that I am miserable and alone."

"Of course not," Hermione said, too quickly and too loudly. Harry gave her a skeptical glance. "Fine," she conceded, "It's just, if you had had more friends when Ron and I became…exclusive, you'd have someone else to hang out with. And you wouldn't be so…" She trailed off. "Okay, I see your point."

"And I see yours; I don't want you and Ron to feel guilty when you choose each other over me."

"Way to make us feel better, mate," Ron added, patting Harry on the back. They all laughed.

"So, anyways, what does he like?" Hermione asked triumphantly.

"History," Harry said without thinking. He hadn't meant to say that, had he? Those darn Freudian slips.

"Really? Well, I mean, he is a Ravenclaw." Hermione chuckled softly. "We could stop by Diagon Alley afterwards," she suggested.

"No, I mean, he likes muggle history, like Voltaire," Harry clarified.

"That's fascinating. There are few wizards who show an interest in muggle history. And in the great philosophes of the Enlightenment?"

"Philo-whats?" Ron asked, by this point completely lost.

"So, do you have any suggestions?" Harry inquired, bringing Hermione out of her historically induced reverie.

"Oh, right." She paused for a moment, thinking. "There's a new biography on Robespierre that just came out!" Hermione cried enthusiastically.

"You sound way more excited than any sane human being should," Ron quipped.

"Ron, you just don't understand. I mean, it's Robespierre! Who doesn't get excited about Robespierre?"

"Me," Harry and Ron both answered.

"Do you even know who he was?" She wheeled on them.

"He was that guy, right?" Harry supplied.

"'That guy'" she repeated incredulously.

"You know, that guy. That guy who…you know. Ron, you know what guy I'm talking about." Harry looked to Ron for support.

Ron, however, gave none. "Nope."

"You guys really have no idea." This was, of course, a statement, as the fact was quite obvious from their ramblings.

"Not one."

"Nope."

Hermione grew greatly flustered and indignant at their ignorance. "Robespierre _was_ the French Revolution!"

"Wait, was that the one with that Bismarck guy you're always going on about?" Ron inquired.

"No! That was the Franco-Prussian War, Ronald! That was almost a century later!"

"Oh, well, they both involve France."

Hermione sighed very heavily. "If we're done butchering all of European history, why don't we head over to the bookstore?"

The two men took the hint and followed her out of Starbucks, but they couldn't help but continue their conversation behind her as they walked.

"So, Stalin?" Ron began, "Didn't he create the first chain of strip clubs all throughout Europe?"

"Why, yes, Ron," Harry agreed, "I believe he did. He made a killing off of them too. Especially off of Joan."

"You can't mean Joan of Arc, his most famous burlesque dancer?"

"In fact, I do, Ron. They called her St. Joan."

"Is that because-"

"Enough!" Hermione turned on them. "I have no interest in whatever obscene thing that you were about to say about one of the most influential women in the Middle Ages."

"Sheesh, 'Mione, we're only kidding," Ron apologized. They fell silent, though Harry and Ron couldn't hold back the smallest of immature snickers.

"Hey, Hermione!" an employee called as the trio entered the bookstore.

"Hey, Stan," she replied, waving.

"They all know you, don't they," Harry stated.

"Maybe," Hermione muttered.

"So, let's just find the book and get out of here. This place is kind of creepy." Ron glanced around furtively.

"Why?" Harry asked, confused. Hermione looked away, and Ron blushed. "Maybe I don't want to know."

"I think it's best that way, mate."

"Anyways, I think the book is over here." Hermione said, changing the subject and leading them towards the history section. She surveyed the shelves, scanning the titles quickly and efficiently with well-practiced ease. "Ah, here it is," she finally remarked, pulling a book from its resting place. "_Fatal Purity: Robespierre and the French Revolution_." She handed the book to Harry.

As soon as Harry looked at the cover, he burst out in a paroxysm of laughter.

"What?" Ron asked, coming over to see what all the fuss was about. He followed Harry's gaze and began laughing as well, though his laughs were more choking guffaws than actual laughter.

"Honestly," Hermione began, "what is so funny?"

"Look at his hair!" Ron snickered.

"Hair? Look at his chin," Harry replied.

"Are you two making fun of Robespierre's personal appearance?" Hermione inquired incredulously.

"Maybe a little bit," Ron admitted. "But you have to agree, he is a rather unfortunate-looking person."

Hermione was about to retort, but she sighed in resignation. "Okay, you have a point. But you don't have to be attractive to do great things. I mean, what about Dumbledore?"

"I bet Dumbledore was pretty sexy back in the day," Ron argued.

Hermione wisely decided that the conversation should end before it got any worse. "Let's just go. That's a mental image I'll never be able to get rid of."

Harry purchased the book, and the three of them left the store, Ron bounding excitedly in front, eager to leave the mall which he so greatly despised.

"This is great," Hermione was saying to Harry, though he wasn't really listening. "I mean, what are the odds that you meet a roommate that loves history? I can't wait to meet him. Oh, and I just bet that you two are going to become the best of friends. It'll be great; I mean…"

Harry, on the other hand, was inwardly marveling at the irony of it all. What would Hermione say if she knew that she was talking about Malfoy? That the boy she so desperately wanted to meet was Draco Malfoy, their old rival and bully? She was actually encouraging him to become friends with Malfoy. The sniggering persisted well throughout the ride home, but Harry supposed that a good deal of it had to do with a rather unattractive man on the cover of what seemed to be the most boring book in the world.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

A/N: Georgina: GUESS WHAT!!! WE AREN'T DEAD! You see, we kind of haven't updated for awhile, so I just wanted to clear up any doubts you may have had. We will continue to write this story; it's just to fun to leave alone. By the bye, Peaches isn't here right now, so you'll have to deal with lovely Georgina. That isn't too much of a punishment, I hope.

Anyhow, first let me apologize for the extreme lateness of this chapter. There really is no excuse. The College Board is an evil contraption of malevolent malignance, however. A.P. exams should die a horrible, flaming death…with explosions… and a shotgun. But, anyways, I hope this chapter is longer and funnier than the others because we want to make up for it. Don't worry, the plot will get moving soon; just wait.

So, now: QUESTION TIME. The winner from last chapter is ThyPenOrThySword, who answered that we should blame the penguins because they are sexy beasts. That is a very excellent answer. The question for this week is: If you were to pick a song for Harry to strip to, what would it be and why? I quite like that question.

By the way, Robespierre is amazing. I simply love him. Even though, I must say, he's pretty unfortunate-looking. It's rather sad. I would have rather liked him to be sexy and manly. Alas, he is not. But, he's dead anyways, so it really wouldn't have mattered. If you have any interest in him at all, read _Fatal Purity _(the book mentioned in this chapter) by Ruth Scurr. It is fascinating. Robespierre undoubtedly will make several more appearances in this fic.

Hmm… I'm all out of necessary tidbits. Perhaps I should divulge some deep, dark secrets about Peaches, like –

Peaches: No.

Georgina: Curses! Foiled again!


	6. Condom Lad

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, in a magical place called the basement of Pancakes's house, the authors owned nothing. Well, perhaps this is a bit of an overstatement; they owned quite a lot. They did not, however, own the Harry Potter characters, or anything of that nature. Except in the domain of fanfiction; here the characters of Harry Potter were like the monkey bars on the playground of doom. But we don't own them. We just own the ideas. Okay, so we may have stolen those, too. But… well, yeah. Read on!

Summary: Do you like pancakes? Do you like shot glasses? Well, then have we got a story for you! Warning: May not actually include pancakes or shot glasses.

Condom Lad, the Protector of All Humankind!

(Georgina: Umm…yeah.)

In accordance with Harry's earlier beliefs, it was just as difficult to open the door to Malfoy's apartment as he feared it would be. Not only was the key unwieldy, but its awkwardness was only increased by the numerous shopping bags that hung on his arms. As a matter of custom, he began to swear loudly and following his usual pattern. The sound of the metal key scrabbling against the mahogany of the door added to the pleasant cacophony. He had just made it through the third movement of his exceptionally profane symphony when the door swung open, revealing one, Draco Malfoy. The blond gave a quick scan of the disheveled and disgruntled man in his doorway before shooting him an incredulous glance and walking back into the apartment.

After unceremoniously depositing his shopping on the floor of his new bedroom, Harry returned to the living room, where Malfoy was sitting, curled up in the corner of one of the couches, reading _Candide_. Next to Malfoy was the largest, most ostentatious Christmas tree that Harry had ever seen. It was decorated in a conglomeration of spun glass bulbs of varying sizes, shapes, and colors. This was augmented by a multitude of different stars, snowflakes, and icicles. Below the numerous ornaments were strands upon strands of lights that served to illuminate the tree from the inside out, lighting up the room in a twinkling glow of silver and gold.

Harry stood completely still, momentarily stunned by this magnanimous structure of Yuletide festivity.

"Potter, if you drool on my floor…" Malfoy warned half-heartedly, still entranced by his book.

Harry promptly stopped staring. "When did you do all this?" Harry gestured around at the fully bedight and bedazzled living room.

Malfoy scoffed. "You think I would demean myself to plebian manual labor purely for the sake of aesthetics? Hardly." He still refused to stop reading.

"Well, then, who did do it?" Harry asked, sitting on the other couch, across from Malfoy. He had no idea why he trying to force conversation with an unwilling participant. He wouldn't have even wanted to talk to Malfoy if Malfoy were interested in talking to him.

"I don't know, whoever the agency sent?" the other man dismissed, somewhat irritated.

"You hire people to set up your Christmas tree?"

"I believe I just said that, yes."

They relapsed into a silence, one which Harry found incredibly awkward for some reason. He drummed his fingers softly on the arm of the couch. Malfoy shot him a glare. Harry sighed heavily. Malfoy reciprocated.

"Must you?" He put his book down on the coffee table and looked up and the raven-haired wizard.

"It, uh, looks nice." Harry gestured awkwardly to the decorations.

"You interrupted me to tell me that it looks nice?" Malfoy inquired incredulously. "Hearing you talk is nearly as scintillating as shopping for novelty hats."

Harry wondered briefly how Malfoy could have known about the novelty hats.

Malfoy returned to _Candide_. Harry found this situation surprisingly awkward. Not that all conversations with Malfoy weren't awkward, but this one was awkward in a new way. They weren't fighting or arguing, and, even though Malfoy had insulted him, the remark had carried far less of its usual venom.

Harry sighed for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day; he was a bit confused. He unconsciously adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He then noticed that Malfoy was examining his face intently. If he had thought that it couldn't get any more awkward, he was sadly mistaken.

"You're still wearing those relics?" Malfoy asked disinterestedly, shooting a disparaging glance at his glasses nonetheless.

"Um…yes?"

"Well, they're hideous."

"Thanks?"

"No need. I'll insult you any day." He stood and stretched luxuriously, grabbing the book he had placed on the coffee table. "Oh, you don't need to fix any dinner; I've already eaten." And with that, Malfoy swept off down the hallway. Pretentious bastard.

Harry glared at Malfoy's retreating back as the man entered his bedroom, the heavy mahogany door swinging shut with a loud bang. With nothing else to do, Harry arose from the couch and headed off towards his own room; perhaps he'd finally be able to get a better look around and unpack his things.

Harry entered the room that he was now to call his own and looked around. It seemed he hadn't missed much when he had done his preliminary scan during his earlier tour of the apartment. Everything was tastefully done with a four poster and the usual array of furniture: dresser, desk, bedside table. There were doors along the wall, one sliding, one normal. Harry assumed the sliding door led to a closet, which could only mean that the other door would open into his bathroom.

Sedately, he walked over to the bathroom door and began to open it, questioning what he knew of Malfoy's taste in hopes of predetermining what lay inside. He found that he was not disappointed: the bathroom was elaborate in all forms of the word. The floor was tiled in white marble that carried flecks of grey. This marble extended to the fixtures in the bathroom: the sink, counters, and so forth. A large bathtub was situated in the corner inlaid into the floor. It was reminiscent of the tub in the prefect's bathroom back at Hogwarts, though it was considerably smaller and had fewer taps. Also, its edges were rounded, making the shape nearly oval. Next to this was a large walk-in shower, paned in misted glass.

Harry looked to the wall next to him and saw his own reflection staring back; the entire wall was lined in mirrors. That was a bit narcissistic, to say the least, but Harry wasn't really surprised. On an alternate wall was an array of cool looking knobs, dials, and a high-tech touch screen. From what Harry could figure out, these could be used to warm the marble floor and keep the mirrors steam free. He was certain that this was not the limit of its capabilities, but he wasn't that mechanically oriented.

Exiting the bathroom, Harry proceeded to glance at the analog clock mounted on the wall next to his desk. It wasn't that late, and Harry knew that, since it was a muggle building, he should probably unpack manually; but, for some reason, he was just too tired. With a flick of his wand, everything was, basically, where it was supposed to be. A few lone articles of clothing lingered on the floor; Harry's packing and unpacking spells lacked potency. However, Harry would contend with those tomorrow. For now, he simply collapsed into his bed and allowed sleep to consume him.

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The days leading up to Christmas Eve passed uneventfully, filled with shopping and preparation. Hermione spent at least four days decorating, annoying Ron to no end. She insisted on this Christmas's perfection over all others.

"And it's driving me insane!" Ron griped to Harry over the phone.

"Sorry, mate," Harry replied with as much sympathy as he could muster; the need to laugh was becoming too strong.

"I bet Jesse's not giving you a hard time. Man, I miss the days when we were roommates."

"Do you really? I'm sure Hermione would love to hear that."

"She knows I'm only kidding…I think." Ron paused. "So, you're still coming over tonight, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Though, I still don't know why you picked today instead of tomorrow. Haven't we always done the Christmas gathering on Christmas Day?"

"Yeah, well, I thought it was time for a change," Ron supplied unconvincingly, "And, besides, you probably have plans with Jesse for Christmas morning anyhow."

"You're planning on a romantic Christmas morning with Hermione, aren't you?"

"Pretty much."

"Ah, well, unfortunately, my Christmas morning plans do not run along similar lines."

"Of course they don't, mate." Ron guffawed. "Jesse is a _guy_."

Harry floundered awkwardly. He knew Ron couldn't see his facial expression, which was lucky, as he looked like a kid with his hand caught in the metaphorical cookie jar. He settled for a chuckled, "Yeah."

"Anyway, come over later. Hermione's planned some huge elaborate dinner, and she refuses to let me even taste anything until dinnertime."

"Sounds like Hermione is enjoying this. I'll bring your presents with me."

"Alright, see you then."

Harry heard a click, and Ron's line went dead. As he hung up the phone, he wondered what the next morning would be like. Conceivably, he would be opening Christmas presents with Malfoy. His life had gotten increasingly awkward since he had moved in with the former Slytherin. Actually, that reminded him that he had yet to wrap Malfoy's gift. He headed towards his room, planning to wrap the present and grab his ones for Ron and Hermione on his way out.

"You're going over the Weasel's?" Malfoy asked from behind Harry as Harry turned the doorknob of their front door.

"Yeah," he said as he turned to face the man, ready for the ensuing verbal spar.

"You left this on the coffee table." Malfoy handed Harry Hermione's book.

Harry took it, confused; shouldn't they be fighting right about now? This situation was becoming entirely too irksome. Malfoy gave Harry a puzzled look, as Harry was still standing, hand outstretched, mouth wide open, but Malfoy just shook his head and turned to leave.

"Wait, Malfoy," Harry began; he really had no idea why he was doing this.

The man stopped, turning to face Harry. Malfoy nodded, as if granting Harry permission to continue.

"Do you think… I mean, would it be okay…what I'm trying to say is, would you mind if stayed here tomorrow morning? That is, if you don't have plans or anything. 'Cause I wouldn't want to interrupt." Harry was babbling.

Malfoy shrugged. "Sure; fine with me."

"Um, good. Yeah. So…yeah." Harry left the apartment as soon as possible.

Harry raised his hand and knocked on the door of the apartment that, until recently, he had shared with Ron and Hermione. He was thankful that for once he did not have to contend with his keys before opening the door and that Ron and Hermione would have fair warning so he would not be forced to see anything…unpleasant. The benefits of no longer living with his two best friends (even if he was now living with Malfoy) were beginning to grow on him.

"Hey, Harry," Ron greeted his ex-roommate as he ushered him into the apartment.

"I brought wine." Harry held out the bottle unceremoniously.

"Thanks, mate." He accepted the proffered bottle. "Why don't you sit down, and I'll bring this to Hermione?"

Harry sat down on the couch, and Ron departed to the kitchen.

"Ron! I told you I still need a minute. I'm not done yet," Harry heard Hermione cry.

"Relax, Hermione; it's just Harry. He doesn't mind waiting."

"Wait. He's here already?"

"Yeah, he brought wine."

"Well, then, what are you doing talking to me? Go! Talk to Harry! I'm busy!"

"Okay; okay." Ron reentered the living room with a disgruntled sigh. "She's been like that all day."

"Why is she so uptight? I mean, it's just me," Harry said as Ron joined him on the couch.

"Eh, never mind, mate. That's something Hermione will have to tell you herself."

At this, Harry looked perplexed, but let it slide. "So, Ron, please tell me you've finished all your Christmas shopping."

"Oh, Hermione did that for me weeks ago. One of the benefits of having a girlfriend." He smiled knowingly at Harry. "All I had to do was buy her something."

"May I inquire as to what?" Harry asked, intrigued.

Ron chuckled. "You may, but you'll have to wait to find out just like everyone else." He saw the skeptical look Harry was giving him. "Don't worry. _I_ know what she likes." He gave Harry a pointed look.

Harry rolled his eyes. "That was one time. And the cow socks weren't that tacky."

"They mooed every time she took a step! Do you know how awkward that is after certain activities?"

"Really awkward." Hermione entered, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Dinner's ready, if you guys are at all interested."

Ron, being ravenous as always, was already moving towards the dining room, the mere mention of food sending him into a state of excited anticipation. Hermione and Harry followed at a slower pace, smiling to each other at Ron's predictable antics.

As he entered the dining room, Harry took stock of the setting. Hermione had charmed a plethora of candles to suspend themselves above the table, which was laden with a multitude of delicious foods. The turkey was the centerpiece of the festive arrangement, with stuffing, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and cranberry sauces displayed in delicate china dishes, surrounding the focal point. Hermione waved her wand at the radio, and the soft, melodic strains of "O Holy Night" drifted throughout the elegant room, augmenting an atmosphere that was already reaching its way into perfection.

"This is really nice," Harry commented, sitting down across from Hermione and next to Ron.

Hermione's face lit up. "You really think so?" She looked to Ron pointedly. "See, I told you he'd like it."

"Why did you think I wouldn't?" Harry inquired suspiciously.

"Oh." Hermione looked surprised and then lied unconvincingly, "I was just fishing for compliments."

"Let's dig in, shall we?" Ron suggested hastily.

Harry readily agreed, filling his plate with all sorts of food, tucking in quite enthusiastically. The meal was as delicious as it looked.

"Really good cooking, 'Mione," Harry told her, breaking the comfortable silence that had grown between the three friends.

Ron said something that could have been interpreted as "yes" were it not for the fact that his mouth was completely stuffed, making his speech entirely unintelligible.

"To tell the truth," Hermione leaned forward conspiratorially, "Molly gave me a couple of her secret recipes."

"Mum gave you the family recipes?" Ron inquired incredulously. "She wouldn't even give those to Fleur after she and Bill got married."

"She said this was a special occasion." She threw a none too subtle glance at Harry.

"Oh, right," Ron realized aloud.

By now Harry had managed to conclude that, without a doubt, something was up. Molly would not give away her sacred holiday recipes for just anything, and it was apparent that the reason for her sudden sharing was closely tied to none other than himself. However, both Ron and Hermione were obviously though ineptly trying to conceal this fact, so he thought it best to act as though he had not caught the meaning behind the exchange.

"Yeah, Christmas is a pretty special occasion, and, Hermione, you're basically another one of her children, so it makes sense," Harry concluded his sentence and his meal, sitting back in his chair with an air of contentment.

Hermione looked pleased at the comment, and Ron gave Harry a look of simultaneous astonishment and contemplation when he compared Hermione to one of Mrs. Weasley's children.

"Why don't we have dessert in the living room and open presents?" Hermione offered, standing and collecting the dinner plates. "I made a treacle tart, which, if I do say so myself, is quite excellent."

"Sure." Ron shrugged, helping to gather the remaining dishes.

Harry made as if to clear the table as well, but Hermione stopped him.

"Harry, it's okay. Ron and I are all set."

"You don't need my help?"

"No. We're fine. You don't need to worry yourself." She smiled. "Just go and sit in the living room."

Feeling sufficiently rebuked, Harry retreated to the living room.

"I hope you like it," Hermione said, joining Harry in the living room, Ron trailing behind. She handed Harry a plate of treacle tart and waited for his reaction.

"Looks delicious, Hermione. Why don't you guys open my presents to you while I devour as much as possible."

"Oh, don't stuff yourself, Harry," Hermione chastised as she picked up Harry's present to her, looking at it with interest, "I wrapped up some of everything for you to take back, just in case you and Jesse don't feel like cooking anything tomorrow."

"Thanks, Hermione. Now open your present."

Hermione carefully examined the rectangular shaped parcel, shook gently, and then meticulously began unwrapping the gift. Ron looked on in jittery anticipation, fingers twitching, as if he was barely restraining himself from reaching out and tearing off the paper himself.

Hermione finally finished her precision unwrapping operation, and revealed the gift to herself and Ron, who were sitting on the same couch, Ron leaning over Hermione in excitement.

"Oh, thank you, Harry! It's wonderful! It's just what I wanted," she exclaimed, enthused.

"Well, yeah. You gave me a list to choose from. But, you're welcome," Harry replied.

Ron reached beneath the Christmas tree and grabbed a bag with green tissue paper sticking out at odd angles. "I wrapped it myself," he remarked sheepishly, handing it to Harry.

Harry accepted the gift with a grin and set to work pulling out the tissue paper, which Ron had seemed to think should have been taped very securely to the inside of the bag. When he had finally removed the final vestiges of covering, he took from the bag what seemed to be a tent for a small family.

"It's a sweatshirt," Ron explained. "It looked so warm and comfortable. I thought you would like it."

Harry placed the red, oversized garment on the arm of the chair he was sitting in. "Thanks, Ron," he said, slightly perplexed.

"There's more in there," Hermione told him, "I charmed it to fit."

Harry responded by reaching his hand in again and pulling out a photo album:

"It's full of pictures from Hogwarts and stuff," Ron commented eloquently.

A gift certificate for Ben and Jerry's ice cream:

"They make the best ice cream," Hermione informed him.

"I like Half-Baked," Ron said to no one in particular.

Harry thought Ron's flavor preference suited him.

With much trepidation, Harry took the last item from the bag.

"_Fifty First Dates_? The Adam Sandler movie?" Harry asked disbelievingly.

"It's just so funny and happy." Hermione smiled cheerily.

"Oh, come on, guys. I was buying it for a little while, but, really, Adam Sandler? What is going on?"

"Well," Hermione looked guiltily to Ron.

Ron looked from his girlfriend to Harry and back again. "Harry, we just want you to be happy."

"I thought we had this conversation." Harry sighed. "I'm perfectly happy."

"But, you're single," Ron blurted out without thinking.

Hermione gave Ron a disapproving look.

"Just because you guys are so into dating doesn't mean I have to be. I don't need to be in a relationship to feel good about myself," Harry said contemptuously.

"I didn't mean it like that." Ron took a deep breath, sorting out his words. "I feel like I'm deserting you as a friend, that Hermione and my relationship kind of makes you a third wheel. I guess I'm kind of thinking that if you had a girlfriend, you wouldn't be so lonely."

Harry was annoyed, but not so much that he had lost sight of the fact that his friends really did care about him. They stared at him now, anticipating his anger, faces urging yet loving.

"I appreciate your concern. I really do. But, as mean as this might sound, I don't depend on you guys for my happiness. I have a new roommate now." Draco Malfoy, who didn't really count when it came to people he could talk to.

"Oh, yeah. How is Jesse?" Hermione jumped on the change in subject, and Harry let her.

"He's nice, I guess. He's very quiet though. We hardly talk."

"Maybe he's just shy," Hermione offered.

Harry could hardly think of Malfoy as shy. "Yeah, probably. Ron," he turned to his best friend, "I almost forgot to give you your present." He handed Ron an envelope.

Ron opened it hastily, clearly excited about what it might contain. He pulled out a slip of paper and began to read. "It's a contract," he said, confused.

"Keep reading," Harry urged.

Ron did, gasping aloud when he reached the bottom. "Samantha Porter! But, she's the best beater in the country. How'd you get her to fly for the Cannons?"

"Harry Potter is a useful name to have," Harry said smugly.

"I can't believe this. Mate, this is incredible." Ron reeled over his great fortune.

Harry couldn't have been more satisfied with Ron's reaction. It wasn't that long ago that Ron had told Harry of his plans to buy the Chudley Cannons. Harry had thought this to be another one of Ron's get-rich-quick schemes, so had disregarded it; ever since Ron had discovered his skill at playing the stock market, he had been investing in various ventures. However, this time, the results were more than lucrative. The Chudley Cannons was such a poor team that its manager was willing to sell for next to nothing, so Ron jumped on the opportunity to buy his favorite Quidditch team. For the past six months, he had been working hard to drag the Cannons's name out of the dirt and had been doing a fair job. Samantha Porter would be a great addition to the team by anyone's standards.

After this touching scene had come to a conclusion, Harry remained at his friends' apartment for a while longer, laughing and reminiscing about times past. However, their energy eventually began to flag, and Harry took that as his signal to make a polite exit, thanking both of his best friends for the wonderful evening, and hailing a cab to take him home.

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Later, as he brushed his teeth, pulled on his pajamas, and climbed hazily into the warm bed, Harry reflected on Ron and Hermione's sudden concern for his well being and their fear at his apparent loneliness. He decided that while he was not unhappy with his life, he could use some new people to spend time with, and, yes, perhaps even a new relationship. Deciding that these difficulties could be pushed off to the side, to be thought of at a later date, Harry closed his eyes and began the comforting descent into sleep. His last thoughts were of the carefully wrapped gift he had placed under the tree for Malfoy to discover, and he wondered how tomorrow morning's potential for bonding experience or disaster would occur in real life.

Christmas morning dawned overcast and mucky with sleet pouring from the sky and cars ruining any of the remaining white snow with the dirt they sprayed from under their wheels. Harry Potter awoke and padded out of his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He hadn't expected to wake up so late; it was already nine. He also hadn't expected to see Malfoy sitting in the living room, drinking coffee and reading a book contentedly. In all the time that Harry had co-habituated with the man, Malfoy had never gotten out of bed before noon.

"You're up early," Harry grumbled, still groggy from sleep.

"It's Christmas; I'll make an exception." Malfoy put down his book. "Coffee?"

"Sure." Harry sat down on the opposite couch, while Malfoy went to the kitchen to fix his roommate some much-needed caffeine. Someone had certainly gotten into the spirit of the season.

"Here." Malfoy handed him the steaming cup of liquid bliss.

Harry took a gulp and smiled as cheerily as he could muster. "Thanks."

Malfoy didn't respond, instead, he took a package out from under his ridiculously ornate tree. He deposited it unceremoniously onto Harry's lap.

"Is this for me?" Harry asked.

"No, I want you to hold it for me until I can give it to its rightful recipient." Malfoy sneered.

Harry rolled his eyes, yet gingerly peeled back the paper that wrapped the present. Beneath the wrapping paper was a case with the name of some designer that Harry had only vaguely heard of before. He opened the box to find a pair of glasses.

"I thought that if I'm going to be living with you, you at least need wear something fashionable. I can't have you muddying up my image with your horrible accessory choices," Malfoy explained coolly.

Harry took off his old lenses and put on the new square-framed, black glasses.

"See? Better already."

Harry realized with a small shock that he could see perfectly. "How did you know my prescription?" he inquired curiously.

"I stole your glasses while you were asleep the other night," Malfoy said casually, as if breaking into his roommate's room and stealing his personal belongings were nothing to be concerned about.

"Oh." Hary didn't know whether to be pleased or upset. He chose pleased. "Thank you, Malfoy."

Malfoy simply nodded and picked up his book again.

"I have something for you, too." Harry tried to regain the blond's interest.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and lowered his reading material slowly.

"It's not as thoughtful, but, well, here." He grabbed the appropriate present from under the tree and handed it to Malfoy.

Opening with caution, Malfoy tore away the paper. But, as his eyes caught sight of the book that Harry had chosen for him, they lit up with glee. "_Fatal Purity_? I've been meaning to get this. Robespierre is fascinating. How did you know?" he gushed.

"Lucky guess?" Harry supplied lamely, shrugging.

"Well," Malfoy paused, "thank you, Potter." He opened the biography of the revolutionary and began to read fervently.

For some odd reason, Harry felt the weight in his heart lessen a bit. But he blamed it on the Christmas season; it did weird things to people.

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Phish Food had to be the best of all Ben and Jerry's flavors, Harry decided after much deliberation, and there was nothing quite like eating it with a fork. He sat at the kitchen table, tubs of ice cream spread out in front of him like some strange cult offering as he sampled each one.

"What are you doing?" asked a voice from the doorway.

"Watching_Fifty First Dates_," Harry responded without thinking through a mouth full of ice cream, pointing to the television next to the refrigerator.

Malfoy went to the silverware drawer and pulled out a spoon. He joined Harry at the table, asking, "Potter, could you pass me the Half-Baked? It's my favorite."

Harry did, and they ate and watched in companionable silence.

A/N: Georgina: We were abducted by aliens?

Peaches: Okay, so that's a lame excuse. But, if you want to look on the plus side we're not dead.

Georgina: Which might not be a plus depending upon who you are.

Peaches: Pcha! What are you talking about? Everyone loves us!

Georgina: Um, you keep thinking that, hon'.

Peaches: Hey! We have trivia to announce!

Georgina: Indeed, we do!

Peaches: Fun trivia of coolness…osity.

Georgina: Because your grammar is impeccable, Peaches.

Peaches: Damn straight. But, now: ON TO THE TRIVIA!

Georgina: The winner of last chapter's trivia question is ginalyle for suggesting "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" for Harry to strip to! YAY!

Peaches: You get a stripping Harry, because everybody wants that.

Georgina: Hey, Peaches! What's the question for this chapter?

Peaches: Well, Georgina, I'm glad you asked. This chapter's question is: if you were to be a health-related superhero, which hero would you create and why?

Georgina: For example, the title of this chapter was based off of a superhero that I created known to us fondly as Condom Lad.

Peaches: We hope to see some creative answers!

Georgina: And, we'll never wait this late to update again!

Peaches: Possibly.

Georgina: If we're lucky.

Peaches: Okay, bye!

Georgina: Bye!


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